


febrile

by besselfcn



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Jaskier | Dandelion, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:56:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24030922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: He is in love. He is in love. Oh, he is in love in the way poets are in love — wholly, stupidly, all-consumingly, like a hunger that rises in him every time that damnable man lets a fraction of a smile past his mouth.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 45
Kudos: 720
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	febrile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sciencefictioness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/gifts).



> I made sci I deal that if I wrote horny Jaskier he would play DA2 until he met fenris

Jaskier thinks he’s doing a rather good fucking job of it, all things considered.

The things to consider are these: 

  1. He has been traveling with Geralt since he was nineteen years old, and
  2. A nineteen-year-old is, really, less of a _man_ and more of a buzzing maelstrom of sexual desire stuffed into a petticoat and dusted lightly with acne, so the fact that
  3. He hasn’t once come on to Geralt in any manner more serious than a joke and a wink, or an exaggerated bow after a raunchy song, which is, in fact, _quite_ impressive, considering that
  4. He is in love with Geralt. 



He is in love. He is in love. Oh, he is in love in the way poets are in love — wholly, stupidly, all-consumingly, like a fever pitch that rises in him every time that damnable man lets a fraction of a smile past his mouth. He plods after his horse just to watch the line of his back stretch up towards the sky. He watches him bathe and keeps the heat from flushing to his cheeks only by sheer force of will. He writes _songs_ about him, and then he _throws them away_. Burns them against candlelight because they are too real and too true to sing anywhere at all, be it Calanthe’s courtroom or a tavern that only sells pig swill, new for five orens or used for three.

He’s _burning songs_ again, Gods save him. He hasn’t done that since he was fourteen and a girl in Lettenhove told him by letter she thought he ought to find a more sensible profession.

So, yes. He’s doing just fine not getting utterly crushed by the weight of all things, thank you.

* * *

Then Rinde.

What in the hells is he to say about Rinde? If he thinks about it for more than a moment, his throat itches and his head aches and he dreams of throttling a very beautiful, very powerful sorceress for having the gall to ask for what it is she wants instead of succumbing to the beautiful misery of longing. 

No; there’s nothing to be said.

* * *

Nothing at all.

* * *

All right, all right. What’s to be said? What’s to be said about it is this: he _aches_ with the memory of seeing Yennefer moving on top of Geralt. He bites into the back of his own fist at night, thinking of it; how Geralt’s hands looked, his head tipped back in pleasure, her hand curled in the tangles of his hair. He drives his fingers into his own cunt and moans and shakes apart as insatiable as a teenager who just learned how to touch himself while he thinks of what it would feel like to have Geralt inside of him and remembers that look that Yennefer had, like it was too much but how she loved it anyway, and how badly he wants to feel that ache of almost-too-much somewhere other than smothered deep in his fucking chest every time he so much as thinks of the man, and then he comes on his fingers with his lips silently moaning around the shape of a name that doesn’t love him back.

Put that in a fucking ballad, then.

(He’s tried.)

(He burned it.)

It spirals like that — down and then up again, this devouring thing that he hopes, if it’s kind enough, will simply vanish and leave him hollow — until the fever breaks, that day at the lake. 

* * *

The town they’re staying at while Geralt hunts his latest contract and Jaskier tries to stuff it into a song has got quite the nightlife. The inn itself seems to be the center of it; Jaskier spends two hours tossing and turning in bed listening to the periodic cries of joy from the tavern below before he finally throws the covers off and treats himself to a walk out in the night air. 

He wanders down the streets. Past the lamplights of homes where the mothers are still awake putting their children to bed, past the outskirts of town with stray cats chasing each other along fence posts. The town sits just on the edge of a lake, and he thinks perhaps if he can get out of the noise of it all, breathe in the crisp air that rolls over the water’s surface, maybe he’ll get some fucking sleep — 

And, well. It turns out it’s difficult to travel with someone for upwards of a decade without picking up some of their habits. 

He knows Geralt hears or smells or tastes him approaching or whatever before he ever gets there, but the man still doesn’t turn around until Jaskier’s right up against the lakeside with him. Jaskier gets close enough to see the faint movement of his shoulders from his breathing, the only thing that breaks up unnatural, practiced stillness of the way he stands.

“Come here often?” Jaskier says as he comes up beside him.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and glances over to see that — oh, he’s got his eyes shut. Because that’s not a bit off-putting at all, a Witcher standing silent in the moonlight, eyes closed in reticence. 

“Lovely view,” Jaskier says, although it’s mostly pond scum, and he thinks he sees a hint of a smile creep onto Geralt’s mouth. “Seeing through your own eyelids, is that a Witcher mutation, or have you always had that capability? Because I assume you didn’t come all the way out here to _not_ look at a lake. That would be — well, a lot of things, but foremost a bit foolish, don’t you think.”

Geralt opens his eyes. The smile twitches on his face, and then dies, like a poor baby bird. The treacherous thing in Jaskier’s heart follows suit. 

Geralt says, “I’m sorry for what I said about your voice.”

Jaskier blinks. He feels his mind trip over the words, the _I’m sorry_ from _Geralt_ , the _voice_ , what thing about his _voice_ , surely not — 

“The _fillingless pie_ thing?” he asks, swallowing a laugh. “The — Geralt, that was… what was that, a _year_ ago? Why were you even thinking of that? I’m shocked you even _remember_ it!”

“ _You_ remember it.”

Jaskier stills.

Geralt dips his head down, just an inch. He’s looking not at the lake now or at the insides of his eyelids; he’s looking at the ground, jaw clenching and unclenching, some thought coiled in his mouth that he’s having trouble letting go. It takes all the energy Jaskier has not to fill the silence with talk, the way he’s been trained to. 

(It’s _exhausting_ , not talking. He’s got no idea how Geralt does it.)

“You,” Geralt begins, and then breathes out sharp through his teeth. “You sing differently around me, now.”

Geralt must hear Jaskier’s heart pounding in his throat. He must. _Jaskier_ can even hear it, he thinks, and of course it’s his _own_ heart and all, but _still_ , the force of it — 

“Like you’ve practiced,” Geralt goes on. “Or like you’re trying too hard. It’s not like you.”

He knows what Geralt means. He hates that he knows. He hasn’t felt self-conscious about his voice since he was a child, and certainly hadn’t planned to start _now_ , but a glance at Geralt across a tavern and his lungs seize, his mind goes blank. Do better for him, he thinks. Be better. Be more. Be something he could enjoy. 

And to think he had been, before he’d started trying to be.

He feels suddenly dangerously dizzy.

“Do you,” Jaskier starts. He swallows around the lump in his throat. It doesn’t go away, so he tries again. “Do you want me to change it?” 

Geralt frowns. “I want to not have said it.”

Jaskier is a coward. He is a _poet_ , in fact — the worst kind of coward. But he musters up what strength he has and says, “What do you wish you’d said, then.”

Geralt kisses him. 

He has no beautiful words for it. No rhyming couplet, no mellodic tune. He has nothing, indeed, but that one and precious fact — his whole world becomes it, his whole essence distills to it. Geralt kisses him. His whole life has been this moment, stretched thin. He is nothing but something that Geralt holds now in his hands. Geralt kisses him. 

He doesn’t know how they make it back to the tavern. He can’t imagine himself walking all that way, nor surviving the journey if Geralt had carried him, but they arrive, pushed into Jaskier’s room because he’d gotten the one with the larger bed because Geralt had _insisted_ he have it. And now they’re both piled onto it, Geralt pulling at the lacing of Jaskier’s clothes with a frustrated look while Jaskier rolls his hips slowly into Geralt’s leg, chasing any hint of friction he can find.

“How long,” Jaskier manages to ask as Geralt peels off his tunic.

“More specific,” Geralt grumbles. He pulls Jaskier’s trousers off; the air is cold. Maybe the air is cold. Maybe he’s just burning hot. 

“How long did you know I wanted to.”

Geralt’s hands pause at his thighs. They nearly _encircle_ them, fucking _hell_. “Since the start.”

Jaskier turns his face to the side, shell-shocked. The _start_.

Geralt laughs. He trails his fingers up Jaskier’s sides, rucking up the thin shirt he wears between his tunic and his corset. “I could smell it on you,” he says. “And hear it. Your heartbeat.”

Jaskier lets his head drop back to stare at the ceiling. “That’s not fair,” he declares. “That’s really, truly not fair.”

Then Geralt’s mouth is on his neck, his hands squeezing at his sides, and Jaskier doesn’t have anything to say except the pitiful, inhuman noises that curl up at the back of his throat. 

Geralt is still in most of his clothes, which seems _rude,_ but he’s got the decency to keep his clothed but very obviously hardened cock pressed against Jaskier’s leg. Jaskier thinks of it inside him and _shudders_ , clenching around nothing as his fingers press into the thick muscles of Geralt's shoulders.

“This,” Geralt says, his hands trailing along the seams of the corset. “Is it expensive?”

It’s enough to bring Jaskier back to his senses, at least minutely. “It’s one of a kind,” he says. “Tailor at Oxenfurt made it for me.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. His fingers press against the fabric. “Can’t tear it off you, then.”

Jaskier’s head swims. Despite the fact that the corset cost him six months’ savings and a very hefty favor besides, he nearly says _no, never mind, I was mistaken, I’ll get another, not a problem at all._

“I’ll get one,” he says instead. “Cheap one. Fuck, Geralt. I’ll get one.”

Geralt growls in the back of his throat and sets to pulling at the laces, careful and assured. His fingers work at them until the corset pops free, falls to the sides all splayed open, and Jaskier sucks in a deep, rewarding breath at the release of pressure that it brings. 

“Can I,” Geralt says. He licks his lips. “Can I touch them.”

Jaskier’s mouth gapes. “Geralt,” he says, slowly, so the witcher doesn’t miss anything. “If you don’t, I’ll have you killed.”

Geralt laughs, and then bends down and seals his mouth over one of Jaskier’s tits, the other engulfed in his hand. Jaskier _moans_ — it’s a guttural noise, uncontrolled, and he thinks he’ll _die_ here, he’ll either die or come with his tits in Geralt’s mouth and he really doesn’t care which it is, and then Geralt lets _go_ and trails his mouth down his stomach and Jaskier realizes what it is he intends to do and feels his world upending once again. 

“You’re a menace to society,” Jaskier gasps as Geralt mouths at his thighs. “You, you are horrendous, you’ve been keeping this from me _all_ this _time_ —”

“You’re impatient,” Geralt says, like that’s any excuse for _torture_ , and puts his mouth against Jaskier. 

Jaskier loses himself in it. The sensations, the motion. He finds himself grinding against Geralt’s mouth without thinking, babbling things that make even less sense than he usually makes, telling him _yes, yes, oh, fuck, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt_ until it becomes a prayer that builds into an orgasm that shakes his body apart from the inside out. 

Geralt looks up at him from between his legs with those emblazoned yellow eyes. 

Can you hear that, he thinks. That’s my heart giving out.

“Fuck me,” he says, before he’s even caught his breath. “Fuck me, please, I want, I need to feel it, I — “

Geralt lifts him by the hips and turns him over in one motion. 

He’s loose and wet from Geralt’s mouth and his own release already, but Geralt still presses a finger into him to see, and then another. It’s almost too much; he wants to say it’s too much, but it’s a lie, it won’t ever be too much with Geralt. If anything it might never be _enough_ ; ten years of wasted time, almost half a lifetime of wanting. He has never wanted anything the way he wants Geralt; he wants him even now, when he has him. 

“Come on,” he begs, and Geralt pushes a hand on his shoulders and says _easy, easy_ , and then he’s lining himself up and pushing inside him and oh, sweet _hells_. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, like he can’t say anything else, and suddenly Jaskier needs to _make him_.

“Tell me,” he begs. “Tell me how good it feels. Tell me you’ve wanted this.”

Geralt groans. He drops his body weight over Jaskier, pressing his belly to Jaskier’s back; his hips are slow, deliberate, like he’s terrified to move any faster. 

“Tell me,” Jaskier says again. “Please, I need you.”

Geralt shakes. “Feels so fucking good,” he says, low into Jaskier’s ear. “It — _fuck_.”

Jaskier pants, open-mouthed. “How long have you wanted this? And _harder_.”

Geralt obeys; the impact rattles Jaskier’s teeth, jostles his _brain_ , and he doesn’t ever want to feel anything else again. 

“Years,” Geralt gasps.

“Years,” Jaskier breathes. “How many years. Since Rinde?”

“Longer.”

“Cintra?”

“Maybe,” Geralt admits. “Maybe. Can’t remember. Just — wanted you. This.”

He’s already close, Jaskier can tell. The way his breathing skips and his movements are less and less steadied, more of the teeth-rattling thrusts and less of the polite rolls of the hip. _I did this to him_ , Jaskier thinks, and feels his own pleasure building again. 

“Did you think of me,” Jaskier asks, twisting his head to the side for a glimpse of Geralt’s face. Oh, hells, his pupils are blown; he looks _wild_ , an animal thing. “Fucking other men. Did you? I thought of you. Every time.”

“Didn’t fuck other men,” Geralt says. He reaches the hand holding Jaskier’s waist down, down, until he’s brushing his fingers against Jaskier’s clit as he moves.

“Why,” Jaskier says.

Geralt bites at his ear, and says, “They weren’t you.”

Jaskier drops his head and loses himself in the sensations in his body, and he’s coming again, a heat that explodes in his body and would have sent him collapsed into the bed if Geralt weren’t holding him up like he’s nothing, like he’s weightless, before finally spilling his own release still buried deep inside Jaskier’s body. 

They lay there soaked in sweat and sex and the kind of ringing silence that only comes after an orgasm for either moments or a complete eternity. Jaskier couldn’t say. 

“You,” Jaskier says, “do not fight fair.”

Geralt laughs, lighter than Jaskier’s ever heard him. “I never claimed to.”

They get themselves up and clean off, with the same sort of routine as when Geralt’s fought some particularly messy monster. They wrap themselves in loose clothing and go to the bathhouse and order a bath, but this time there’s no grumpy witcher lovingly doted upon by his dedicated storyteller and bard; there is only Geralt and Jaskier and a bath, and the both of them in it, soaking in salts and washing the sweat and grime from each other’s hair with dedication enough to make up for lost time. 

After they return to the room and before sleep comes up to claim him, Jaskier, pressed up against Geralt’s chest, tangled in sheets they pilfered from Geralt’s room, thinks _oh_. 

This is how people manage not talking. 

Their minds are quiet. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter [@besselfcn](https://www.twitter.com/besselfcn).


End file.
